The Sketcher.

Lake County Press, Issue 906, 12 April 1900, Page 2

The Sketcher.

Visiting Day. ♦ Tlio roadway outside is ablaze with fruit ou trestles, and visitors who, lacking forclbought, have omitted till now to purchase gifts can there buy jyalnuts ttt ten a penny, oranges at two for threehalfpence, and sticky dates, as to which the merchant's board says in big blue letters "Startling Prises! Just Arrived:! Good W'aigh't Given!!!" Here, in St. Cecilia, the gift's are being furtively delved out of overcoat pockets and petticoat packets and offered to gratified patients, the while the two muses and luhe young Sister busy themselves with nothing at the green-covered table. St. Cecilia, long and broad, with waxed floors, decorates itself. ; and the red bed-gowned -women, sitting up in their separate beds, point out the ferns and the rocking-chairs and the other comfortable ornaments of St. Cecilia with something of the pride of ownership. At the doorway a small group waits until u visitor at some crowded bedside shall come out and thus make room. Young Number Fifteen, sitting up in her bed, holds her red bedgown •at the throat and looks anxiously at the doorway. " Isn't your friend coming this afternoon, fifteen V" •' I don't s'pose so," answers Number Fifteen, frowning. " It's the old saying, you know, nurse : ' Out of sight, out of mind !' " Nurse says optimistically there's a good quarter of an hour yet, but Number Fifteen declines to take cheerful views of the subject. Nurse urging that lie may have missed his train at Woolwich, Number Fifteen says gloomily that she lays lit'; never tried to catch it. 'Not that I mean to argue," says Number Fifteen, half relenting, " that it's altogether his fault. lie's a chap witli a good appearance, and naturally enough there ;ire some—well, I can't call 'em girls ; cats is what I call 'em—and you might be their own fellow-ser-vant," p'r'aps. but they'd snatch a young man from you before you can say 'knife' and " Number Fifteen stops suddenly. "Why, Jim, you 'ave come, then, at last. Ain't you nice and late, too ?" Flashed hurried young Royal Artilleryman salutes respectfully the nurse. and sitting down on the wooden chair near to Number Fifteen's bed, loosens his white belt and says lie's had a rush for it, tit to break his blooming nock. The young Royal Artilleryman takes his handkerchief from his sleeve and mops his heated forehead, and Number Fifteen doesn't mind her bad knee, doesn't mind the minutes of waiting, doesn't mind St. Cecilia, but leans back and gazes contentedly at her Royal Artilleryman. "And Mrs. Banks. Mrs. Banks! I say." Number Twenty-two, a little weaned with her chattering visitor, smooths her gray hair and gives attention. " You know that party at the end of our street, don't you—the one with the grk>wn-u.p son. You know the one I mean (mysteriously). Mrs. B." Number Twenty-two remembers. " Well, what do you think she came out in last Sunday afternoon ? Just guess now. I was looking out between the Venetians, just to see people coming 'ome from church, and presently (with much bitterness) up conies me lady decked out ia all Die colours of the rainbow ! At least, I say all the colours, but that's a lie. Some of 'em, though. A new gray mantle—gray, mind you. above all colours in the world—reaching down almost to the ground ; and the 'orty look on that woman's face as she marched along—l could 'ave thrown something at her for two pins." Poor old Number Twenty-two has so s'hort a life before her thai she can take only a faint interest oven in Mrs. B.'s new gray mantle. She says soothingly that it isn't worth while taking any notice. " Oh, no !" The visitor smooths the folds of her dress indignantly. " 1 never take no notice of anybody: they could wear forty thousand million new gray mantles and I should never pass any remark, but this woman's manner somehow Oh, and 1 must tell you this bit. This will amuse you, I know." The wit of St. Cecilia is Number lvght, down on the left-hand side, just under the window. Number Eight has no one to see her to-day, but visitors from overcrowded bedsides go to Number Eight and hold an overflow meeting and listen to her. Number Eight, it is who. on the night* when a screen is placed round n bed and Number something is presently wheeled silently out at the end, and the numbers on either side of the empty bed cry a good deal—it is Number Eight, I say. who sits up in bed and with a Cockney accent chaffs the others, and rallies elderly Number Twenty on a suppositious affection for the youngest student, and asks riddles, and brings back to St. Cecilia most excellent spirits. " Oh, we do 'ave some rare larks here." Number Eight clicks her tongue helplessly as one whose words fail, and makes the visitors feel that they are indeed unfortunate in being quite well. "Larks, I say! Larks ain't the word for it. I tell you. the three months I bin 'ere has passed away like a beautiful dream." An astonished girl in blue at the end of the bed asks whether it don't get somewhat menotinous. " Meuotinous !" echoes Number Eight ama/.ert'ly. " Why. what is there to get menotinous V You're wiled on 'and and foot ; you 'ave the best and chicesl of food ; a regular crowd of young gents come to call on yon and see how you are every day of your life ; yon got no work to do—why (gasping) what more d'you want ?" ' D'you feel you're getting any 'better, Number Eight V" Number Eight -she will never be better in this world, and she knows itleans forward confidentially wiili her hand in her tousled hair and a comical air on her bij, r white face. "Number 'lie knows when she's well off," she says impressively. " Von let Number 'lte alone for that. She ain't going to get well quickorn she can elp. There's no Hies on Number 'lte." Number Three, a mother, has her two small boys as visitors. She is very pale, Number Three, and the two small boys stare at their 'mother open-mouthed as though they were trying to iiml out. who she really was. "You're a good hoy at school, I hope, Alfy V" " Middin'," says Alfy with wariness. "And you look after him, Georgie, don't you ?" " lie won't let no one look after him." Georgie looks across the red coverlet at his brother meaningly as one fulfilling a Threat. "lie's as independent U4i he can be." "And your aunt sees to you nicely?' 1 There is at first no answer to this question. The small boys glance at each other with diplomatic reserve. Question being pressed, however, Georgie takes it ujuon him to reply.

" Well, mo'thtr, it ain't what we call nlcsfly. la the first place me aud Alfy has to be up in the morning at " " Five minutes longer, please." It is the grave young Sister at the table who quietiy speaks. The farewells commence. " Oh, doesn't the time fly, to bo sure ! I s'pose we'd better begin saying goodbye. What would you like me to bring you nest Sunday, I wonder V Wouldn't fancy a nice bernana, 1 s'pose V" " Well, goo'bye, mother. Get well as soon as you can, won't you ? It ain't too lively at 'ome without you." "I shall 'ave to linish that story tinother time. You remind me of it, won't you? Good-bye. I hope (with sudden apprehension)—l hope nobody's been talkin' too much. You look a bit tired you know. Good-bye." The visitors begin to back out at St. Cecilia, Walking gingerly because of the waxed floors and waving their Viands. The numbers who arc allowed to sit up in bed do sit. up, a row of red-gowned women, looking wistfully at the departing ones. " I say, Loo !" The flushed young Royal A'rtfllermyman returns, unbuttons his coat, and takes out. a large envelope. " Too me word, I 'alf forged it." Number Fifteen, stroking the sleeve of his coat, asks affectionately what's the row now. " Why, I brought you my photograph," says the Royal Artilleryman awkwardly; " I thought you might like jest to have a glance at it now and again." Number Fifteen looks delightedly at the photograph of the serious well hairoiled soldier, and chokes a little at the throat. Then she places it with ■nni--h content under her pillow, and whispers: "The Sister's not looking, Jim. Lean down and give us a good kiss and thank you for coming to sec me." Out in the corridor a crowd has emerged from the various doorways with red swollen eyes ; and there are also mild attempts at hilarity. Some of the worried lady visitors have brought immaculate children, and these they shake for want of something better to do, and say Never no more, me lord, will I bring you out on a Sunday afternoon. 'The Royal Artilleryman sets his cap at the correct angle, adjusts his white bolt, and as he strides down the corridor he "hums softly : " Then 'ere's to the land of our birth, dear boys, And the gurl that we " •The Royal Artilleryman stops and coughs a lit'tle and nibs bis nose very hard.—"St. James's Gazette."